


The Blasphemers

by Anticipatio



Category: Campaign: Skyjacks (Podcast), Illimat (Board Game)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Biting, Blood and Gore, Changelings, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Morality, Established Relationship, Fallen Angels, Feelings, Flirting, Gore, Immortality, M/M, Magic, Making Out, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Moral Dilemmas, Morality, Multi, Narcissism, Nausea, Neck Kissing, Necromancy, Other, Rough Kissing, Shapeshifting, Snakes, Social Anxiety, Surprise Kissing, Threats of Violence, Traumatic Transformation, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anticipatio/pseuds/Anticipatio
Summary: They're sinners, in each their own way. It's only natural that the Luminaries would bring them together.





	1. A Doctor's Passing Fancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard, living in a conspiracy centered around a sin that sticks like thorns in their skin.

The incantations that fall over Dref’s tongue as he manipulates the very essence of the captain's body feel both foreign and familiar. It's like the clumsy fluency of learning a second language without ever having heard it spoken by a native speaker. It's so unlike divine magic, which tastes natural in his mouth, warm in his larynx. 

But, unlike divine magic, necromancy _yearns._ It aches to dig its tendrils into his psyche, wants to force itself out of his chest like a wild animal. Restraint is one of the biggest challenges, because necromantic magic so badly wants to be _preached._

Dref’s severe social anxiety far outweighs the desire to give into this temptation. 

That doesn't mean he doesn't feel it, of course. But he's finding that it's easy to curb the withdrawal by confiding small bits in the others. Even to the secret keeper that physically recoils at the sound of his ministrations over Orimar. 

Gable watches him sometimes. They could leave, and perhaps they should for their own wellbeing, but he appreciates the company nonetheless. “Does it hurt?” they ask one evening, plaiting their hair into complex weaves as if it were child's play. “Necromancy, I mean.”

“I can see it hurts _you,”_ he drawls, tapping into the necromantic arts to sew tendon back together in Orimar’s hip. It's a thoughtless reply, and it feels rude to say, especially as they wince with the awful aura that fills the space. He hurriedly amends, “B-b-but no it, um, it d-doesn't hurt to p-p-p-perform.”

If they're offended by the careless comment, Gable is good at hiding it. They push a bone needle through a stack of thick, braided hair, humming thoughtfully, “But something _does_ hurt.”

“It's more l-l-like a... craving.” Orimar’s leg kicks reflexively, and Dref swears under his breath. “If I don’t perform the magicks for a while…”

“Do you know why?”

It's not a question he's meant to answer. They look at him with a curious gaze, bright-eyed with knowledge. Insight into something he doesn't know, but something that he _wants to._ “No.”

Gable shakes their head grimly. He's a little disappointed. It's one of those rare lost knowledges that only an ageless being could possess. Maybe he's asking for too much. What he does, after all, goes against every fiber of their being. They move to hover over him, and Dref is suddenly struck with the eerie feeling that he is being examined. Or, perhaps, _judged._ “Most people would not be as sane as you after so many years of study.”

“W-well I took p-p-precautions—” he gestures to the room, to the lack of reflective surfaces and the sealed oil lamps, “And I-I don't want _power._ I want…” Dref exhales reverently, and looks up at them a little hopefully, “I want knowledge.”

“Those can be the same thing,” Gable points out shortly, coming close to his side and staring down at Dref as he fidgets over Orimar’s form. He wonders what he looks like to them, if he's maniacal or merely inquisitive or…

Or a sinner.

They smile, but it's not kindly, “I like you, Dref.”

He's confused, because Gable is his friend (perhaps more?) but he suddenly feels like whatever human connection he has with them is disintegrating under their all-seeing gaze. “And I, you,” he says slowly, suppressing the shudder in his spine. 

“But if you show _any_ sign that your proclivities are any more than a passing fancy, I will not hesitate.”

He meets their steely gaze, frightened and suddenly, inexplicably burning from within. “Gable,” he breathes, “I-I would n-n- _never—”_

They swoop down and kiss him. 

Well, it's something more than that. The moment the shock wears off and his eyes flutter shut, they take to Dref like they want to _devour_ him. He's helpless to Gable’s tongue in his mouth, running along his teeth and flicking over his palate, and to _their_ teeth, biting at his lip until he can faintly taste copper. 

And, of course, he's _very_ confused by this whole interaction, but he welcomes their muscular arms hoisting him up and pushing him into his work desk with so much urgency that his papers go flying off. That burning sensation he got from looking into their eyes quadruples, frying his brain until he can distantly hear himself moaning indecently into their mouth. He feels ravaged, like prey for a starving lion. 

But then the suddenness at which they stop leaves Dref reeling. He brings a shaky hand to his mouth to touch the slickness of saliva over the bruised and scraped surface of his lips, awed. He pants raggedy, staring into the metallic shine of Gable’s eyes, searching for meaning. “You need purpose,” they whisper, voice husky, “And if this thing you have with Travis and I is the one thing keeping the madness at bay—”

“It's not,” he rasps, mouth going dry. He licks over the sting of his lips. “But I—If it ever _is,_ then I assure you that I will not go mad.”

“That's good to hear,” they murmur, leaning in until they're millimeters apart. Gable sighs, like they're releasing a breath they've been holding for however many minutes their conversation has lasted. Before Dref can lean in and catch their mouth again, urged by a sense of mutual infatuation that balances tenuously between Gable’s overwhelming heat and his own chill, they turn away to slot their head in his shoulder. Their arms come up under his arms and cradle his back, drawing soothing circles into the narrow space between his shoulder blades. It feels protective, like they're carving divine vigils into his skin, cleaning the filth of necromancy from his body. 

Well, this is also good. 

He basks in the chaste touch as it softens the jagged edges left by their heated kiss. “I-If I may ask,” he mumbles by their ear, “What made you so worried n- _now?”_

“Experience,” they reply simply, nuzzling into shoulder, “And the way you look at me when…”

They whisper a little something that makes Dref’s face go red. “Uh. Um.”

“I don't want to lose that.”

“Ah. Mngh—I… M-me neither.”

“I like to carry you,” they sigh, “And I like it when you touch my back.”

“Oh…” His hands migrate up from where he hugs around their middle to where he knows Gable’s scars lie. They purr an appeased little sound, and he thinks of how they're unlearning objective morals. For this. For _him._ Gable may have been opening their mind to the shifting interests of mortals for decades, if not centuries, but this is a unique brand of blasphemy that has _never_ been acceptable. 

The captain stares dead-eyed at the ceiling, totally unmoved by the sudden racket. In the two years he knew Orimar, Dref can't say he ever got a good grasp of how he viewed the good and evil things in the universe. Maybe he'd be disgusted at how Dref reanimated the former seat of his soul, or maybe he'd be amused at how he's use it to deceive the crew so tactfully. 

Orimar winks. Dref doesn't know why he does that, and it scares him. 

“Do not hesitate,” he murmurs. Gable makes a questioning little sound. “If it comes to—Please. Do not hesitate.”

They shift back until their nose brushes against Dref’s. “Do you know me to be one who does?”

He smiles shyly, and they kiss him again. 

The captain's hand twitches.


	2. A Serpent's Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But snakes aren't particularly keen on morals, especially when they're too busy with the pain of existence.

The serpent wrapped around Dref’s neck makes him sick. 

Not because it's a snake—he rather likes them, actually—but because he can feel every shifting muscle in its body and projects each inch onto Travis’s human body in his mind. He thinks of the unbearable stretch and tear that must occur to form such a perfect specimen. His stomach churns thinking of the crack of bone as it snaps into hundreds of little pieces to mesh into a flawless set of hundreds of little ribs. 

He audibly gags.

“Don't throw up,” Travis says, a disturbingly familiar, adult man's voice coming from the motionless jaw of a snake. His tongue flickers, brushing against Dref’s cheek, and _that_ makes more bile rise in his throat. _“Don't throw up.”_

“It's ha-hard when you're all m-m- _mmmmmm—_ s-s-slippery a-and s- _stretched_ and—gnngh—c-con- _contorted.”_

“You have a dead body in front of you and you're _still_ hung up on the goopening?” Even the very mention makes Dref choke on another gag, and Travis tsks, “Just deal with the issue at hand, please.”

He's referring to the body of a recently deceased— _very_ recent, based on the spreading pool of blood—corsair they found behind the bar. If Dref hadn't been so preoccupied with his concern of the captain's unstable neck, he might have vomited from the sight. Instead, he vomited because Travis had just begun his transformation with a barely-suppressed scream and the violent ripping of flesh.

After the two minutes, and another minute of dry heaving, Dref was left with a serpent and a dead body. His mind had snapped back into place and, with his meager strength mixed with Travis’s lazy encouragement, he'd somehow managed to drag the body back into their shared room without alerting anyone. 

The desk in the room serves as a makeshift gurney, and Dref’s tools are spread across two end tables pushed together. He steels himself, swallows down the anxiety burning up his chest, and makes his first cut. Neck tendons are difficult to find, given that most of the bodies he encounters are too mutilated to get much out of. And, given the captain's new proclivity of destroying Dref’s hard work while following commands too quickly and literally for comfort, Dref is _always_ short. Until he finds a spell to _create_ tissue, he's stuck with this grisly reality. 

More clotting blood oozes from the gash in the man's chest. Dref is taken with another gag. More bile. As if his indigestion isn't awful enough already. 

“You know,” Travis drawls, “I never understood why you would take this profession if you're so squeamish.”

Dref grunts a displeased sound. Conversation is distracting and makes it hard to work fast, but he knows that Travis won't possibly give him any semblance of peace. “The—Humans, uh… The l-l-limits of the h-human body al-always seemed so—hm— _arbitrary,”_ he murmurs, taking slices of delicate tissue with unexpectedly steady hands. The miniscule amount of drainage with post-mortem damage is, as always, appreciated. “I want t-t-to know how it can be… _improved.”_

“That's not creepy at all.”

“I… Are you…?”

“Yes, Dref,” Travis groans over the sickening sound of bone being scraped, “As always, that was sarcasm.”

“You must uh-understand th-th-that you have n-no facial expressions—”

“And _you_ most certainly understand that messing about with bodies is creepy.” He sighs, a sudden puff of air that feels especially disturbing against Dref’s ear, “But I guess you _do_ have stranger proclivities than most.”

Dref falters mid-cut. It's barely a moment at most, but Travis’s head tilts inquisitively, and Dref feels the barely-there flicker of a reptilian tongue on his neck. So much more nauseating than when it's his human tongue. 

“You wrestle with this, don't you?” Travis murmurs, but he's not very accusatory. Not at all, in fact, but rather _affectionate._ Perhaps even sympathetic, if he's capable of such a feeling. “I don't think you're doing anything wrong, for what it's worth. But I suppose this _is_ coming from an abomination—”

Dref speaks beyond himself, without thought, “No!” It's such a sudden, impassioned interjection that he can _feel_ Travis’s shock in the tension of his long, much too long body. “Y-you are n-n-not an _abomination.”_

The body in front of them suddenly feels very unimportant, half-dissected at the throat. Dref releases his steady grip on his scalpel and forceps, opting to urge Travis to coil on his shaking hands. His scales are so smooth, flawless despite the fact that he has only two minutes to form them from human skin among the multitudes of other changes. Perhaps, Dref thinks, he can at least be glad that Travis is never betrayed by his transformations. He's always Travis, nothing less. “You…” he whispers, marveling at Travis’s healthy, vital sheen, “You're a miracle.”

There's a silent pause. Travis flicks his tongue again, but is otherwise still, emotionless. “Aw, shucks,” he finally says, perhaps a touch more sincere than he intended to sound. It makes Dref smile a little wobbly smile. “I'm glad _someone_ can appreciate how wonderful I am.”

Dref heaves a sigh, releasing a day's worth of tension in a single breath. He allows Travis to crawl back up his arms, settling anew as a heavy weight on his shoulders. A welcome weight, unlike… 

He wishes he could get away with taking more pieces from this poor scoundrel. But, while a few missing neck muscles will certainly be overlooked by the authorities in the morning, missing organs and the sheer amount of necromantic residues leftover from sealing such a large dissection site are much harder to miss. Dref resists the temptation to cut lower, deeper, down to the spine and into the lungs, and removes the tendons he needs. 

“You aren't bad, either,” Travis mumbles, too low to be heard if he wasn't right beside Dref’s head. 

“P-pardon?”

Although the air goes cold as he stitches dead flesh together, and although Travis is now running a far lower temperature than a human, Dref can still identify the tiniest amount of warmth coming from his voice, “I'm trying something new. Complimenting my lovers.”

“Oh. Uh. Th-thank you.”

“While I'm at it,” Travis continues, tinted with mischief, “You're much prettier than you think.”

“Oh…”

“Especially when you're sitting on—”

 _“Okay!”_ Dref barks, flushed down to his collarbone, “Done! I'm d-d-done with—We—gngh—We need t-t-t-to dispose—”

 _“You_ need to dispose of the body,” Travis sighs boredly. “As much as I'd _love_ to help—” he shifts his entire form around Dref for emphasis, flexing every one of his numerous abdominal muscles, “—I don't exactly have the correct number of limbs.”

“Ah…”

“But don't worry,” there's an audible wink in Travis’s voice, “When I do—”

Dref blushes as he busies himself with dragging the body back out to the alley, doing his damndest to ignore Travis’s uncouth drawl.

He sighs heavily, and tries to will away the tender affection in his heart for this rakish man.


	3. An Angel's Bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite their flaws, and despite their differences, they are somehow perfect for each other.

Travis has Gable pushed against the wall of the empty captain's office when he feels a sudden, unexpected twinge in the back of his mind. 

“We should go on a date,” he blurts, breathless. His bared torso is absolutely covered in hickeys, and Gable isn't faring much better, coat and shirt pulled aside to suck marks onto their sculpted abs. The two of them had, until this point, been so engaged in mindless debauchery that the suggestion makes Gable pull away in surprise. 

They look at him with a serious expression—or, at least, it's definitely less neutral and ever so slightly more strained at the corners of their lips and eyes. “What?”

“A date. We should go on one. The three of us.” Travis sways a little, “I mean, not that I care either way—”

“You don't seem like the type, is all,” they murmur, slowly ducking to resume their trail of kisses up to his ear, “To want steady relationships.”

Travis laughs breathlessly, “Orimar is—was—the philanderer. I'm a little more… selective.”

That makes Gable pause, a smirk pressing into his skin. “Oh?” They take his hair in a broad hand to tug his head back, mouthing at the underside of his jaw, “And what is it about Dref and I that make the grade?”

Well, first of all, he thinks deliriously, the way Gable can wind him up so easily with the slowest of movements is pretty convincing. But, even before that, he thinks of seeing them for the first time, towering well over the heads of the massive skyjacks of the _Uhuru._ And the way they move, the deliberate way they talk… They drew the presence of many admirers on the ship, and Travis quickly joined their ranks. 

But Dref…

Thin, bookish, nervous—he's the personification of all sorts of qualities that Travis once thought weak. And he still does. But it turns out that it just made him more eager to pursue Dref. He's a small, mewling creature to Travis, which just riles up the predators in him with a startling intensity. All the while, Dref’s certainly not helpless, armed with a sharp wit and such an impressive skill as a physician that any one of the crew would gladly die protecting him. 

Perhaps it is merely their circumstances and the ever-present loneliness of skyfaring driving him to seek companionship. 

(He doubts it; Travis spent many years happily alone. Something in his chest flutters.)

He grabs a handful of Gable’s ass, “Hm, a lot of things.”

They tsk, lavishing his neck and jaw with affection. “I can't tell if you're not honest with us, or not honest with yourself.”

“Oh, trust me,” Travis breathes, clawing his fingers into Gable’s hair to maneuver them, “I have more self-awareness than you would ever want.”

“Hm, that sounds like something someone with no self-awareness would say.”

“I don't know what to tell— _mmnn,_ damnit—”

Gable smirks into his shoulder, having pushed their knee between his legs. They encase him, almost totally wrapped around Travis’s body, and he's no small man. Their arms come around his middle to pull him close, and they bite roughly into his shoulder, drawing out more lascivious moans that Travis can't stop. “Mnrgh—You still haven't given me an answer,” he pants, bumping his hips up into theirs. 

And, damn them, Gable stills, thoughtful in the most inappropriate moments. Travis groans his dissatisfaction, but that doesn't seem to move them. He thought angels were supposed to be the epitome of empathy, but Gable just hugs him tighter until he can barely move. 

“I'm scared,” they whisper. And if that wasn't enough of a boner killer, they slacken until their bodies barely brush together, letting the cold ship air fall between them. “You're the first person I've met who understands what it's like to live like—well, as we do. That's… fine. But _Dref—”_

“He told me once,” Travis interrupts, uncharacteristically serious, “That he'd experiment on himself if he could.”

“That doesn't help. That's _worse.”_

“To you, maybe.” He buries his face in their chest, unwilling to look Gable in the eyes. He hasn't been like—well, like _Not-_ Travis for a very, very long time. It feels foreign on his tongue, but so very sour and worn. A rotten fruit on his palate. “But he wants… I think he wants to be like us. With us.”

“He's fond of death. He'll embrace it readily, when the time comes.”

Travis thinks of Dref as he's faced with dying corsairs of all affiliations, of the fascinated look on his eyes as life leaves theirs. But also of the pain on his face when he watches Travis transform, or when Gable is cut up and bruised beyond a normal human’s limits. Even the time Jonnit had come down with something that left him aching for days. The look in his eyes, the fear of being alone. 

_‘You're a miracle.’_

He exhales, long and shaky, “He wants to stay with us more than he wants to know death.”

Gable goes quiet. There are words left unspoken, intentionally vague, but they're never fooled. 

The door opens quietly, and, speak of the devil, Dref slips in, intensely studying a book that looks far too complex for anyone else on the ship to read, including Travis. He's pretty in profile, with a handsomely crooked nose and fair, long eyelashes. Travis is instantly hit square in the chest with infatuation. 

He doesn't notice the two of them immediately, which is just _perfect_ for Travis. Before Gable can pipe up and ruin the surprise, he lunges up to kiss them. He nearly forgot where he had his hands, too, groping their behind and roughly pulling their hair. A shocked gasp startles out of them, and he responds with a hungering growl. 

Dref _jumps._ His book falls with a resounding _thump!_ as he squeaks behind his hands. Travis hides his smile against Gable’s lips, which they must feel because their brows furrow and they grumble annoyance into his mouth. Just one more teasing lap, tonguing into their mouth lewdly, before he pulls away with an exaggerated gasp. 

_“Travis,”_ Gable admonishes, breathless. 

When Travis turns to look at him, Dref is completely frozen. He's so flushed, up to his ears and down his neck, that Travis is momentarily worried that he's going to pass out from the rush of blood to his head. “Oh,” Travis says casually, “Didn't see you there, Dref.”

“Um.”

“Was there something you needed?”

“Uh.”

He leans into Gable a little, a poor mimicry of the old gaudy paintings of seafaring sailors with their lovers draping over them. He modeled for one, once. “If we're in your way, we can just leave—”

“N- _no!”_ Dref yelps. He brings his hands away from his face to wring nervously, “No, um, It's—I-I-I c-can just—mngh—see m-m-my-myself out? Um. Uh. S-sorry for, ah…”

Gable pushes Travis off of themself (rude) and strides over to Dref. They duck to retrieve his book, and, as if choreographed, bring their free hand to cup his chin as they stand. “He's messing with you,” they murmur softly, “You're welcome to stay. It _is_ practically your office, now.”

“Ours,” Dref exhales, eyes wide and adoring, “Our office. The four of us.”

Gable smiles, a sweet look that contrasts with the bruising up the patch of their body exposed by their disheveled clothes, “Yes, of course. Ours.”

Travis hooks a hand on his own coat, tossed in a heavy pile on the ground. He doesn't even bother to brush it off before shouldering it back on, he never does. It's far too worn for a little dust to matter. Not to mention his _shirt._ Dref catches his eye as he meanders over, looking at him with equal intensity. “Mostly us three, I think,” Travis adds, “But Jonnit will grow into it nicely.”

Dref grins brightly, an unusual look for such a solemn person. “That he will.”

“Dref, I have a question,” Gable says, glancing at Travis in their periphery. He quirks a brow, looking back at them curiously. _“We_ have a question.”

“We do?”

“Y-you do?”

They ignore Travis pointedly and run their thumb across the remaining blush dusting Dref’s cheekbones. “Next port, when we have time…” Their thumb pauses, and their hands curl to pet along the sharp definition of his jaw. Dref swallows audibly. “Would you like to get dinner with us?”

“O-oh.” His hands ball up over his chest, over where his heart is no doubt pounding like Travis’s in rabbit season. Like he's trying to calm himself, poor thing. Dref’s eyes flicker between Gable and Travis, trying desperately to read them, like this is all a sick prank or an attempt to make a fool out of him. But even Travis can feel his own expression soften, melting just a little for Dref. “Oh, um, y-y-yes. Th-that would b-b-b-be… nice.”

Travis pets the back of his hand along the other side of Dref’s jaw and grins, “Then it's a date.”


End file.
